Page 5 of Dirty Sweet Daddy

For a moment—just a heartbeat—his eyes drop to my lips. Then he steps back, creating distance between us.

"Movie time," he says gruffly.

In the living room, I choose the spot closest to him on the couch, curling my legs under me so that my thigh presses against his. The movie is some action thriller I barely pay attention to. Instead, I focus on Lucas—the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his forearm as his hand grips the armrest, the heat radiating from his body.

Twenty minutes in, I stretch languorously, arching my back just enough to make my breasts strain against my top. I hear his breathing hitch.

"Mind if I lie down?" I ask, and without waiting for an answer, I shift to rest my head on his thigh, my face dangerously close to his crotch.

His entire body goes rigid. "Kate..."

"Hmm?" I look up at him innocently. "Am I bothering you?"

"No," he rasps, but I see his hands curl into fists on the armrest.

I wiggle slightly, getting comfortable, and my breast brushes against his knee. He grabs a throw pillow, positioning it over his lap with forced casualness. But not before I notice the thick ridge straining against his zipper.

Bingo.

For the rest of the movie, I torture him with small movements—stretching my legs, letting my hand rest on his knee, making soft little sounds during the tense scenes. Each time I feel him respond—a twitch of muscle, a sharp inhale, the pillow pressing more firmly against his lap.

By the time the credits roll, the air between us is electric with tension. I sit up slowly, letting my body drag against his.

"That was fun," I murmur, looking directly into his stormy eyes. "Best birthday ever."

Something flickers in his gaze—hunger, need, conflict—before he masks it. "It's late," he says, voice rough. "We should call it a night."

Disappointment courses through me, but I don't push. Not yet. I've made my point tonight. He wants me. There's no denying it now.

"Goodnight, Daddy,” I say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. My lips linger a second too long, and I feel him shudder. "Thank you for making my birthday special."

In my bedroom, I strip off my clothes and lie back on the sheets, my body humming with unfulfilled desire. I slide my hand down my stomach, between my thighs, finding myself embarrassingly wet. I imagine it's Lucas's fingers touching me, Lucas's deep voice in my ear.

"Such a good girl," he'd growl, the praise making me whimper.

My fingers circle my clit, pleasure building fast and urgent. I picture Lucas above me, his powerful body covering mine, his cock stretching me open. In my fantasy, he's praising me, telling me how perfect I am, how wet and tight.

"That's it, angel," fantasy-Lucas rasps. "Come for Daddy."

My back arches off the bed as I climax, my free hand pressed against my mouth to muffle my cry as I whisper, "Daddy," into the darkness of my room.

Spent and trembling, I stare at the ceiling, determination hardening in my chest. I've waited two years for Lucas Hale. I've seen the way he looks at me. The way he wants me.

And I'm done waiting.

four

. . .

Lucas

I'm a dead man walking. The moment Kate sashayed down the stairs in those goddamn shorts that barely covered her ass, I should have locked myself in my office for the night. Instead, I tortured myself for hours—watching her bend and stretch, feeling her warm thigh pressed against mine, enduring the sweet torture of her head near my crotch. The whole time, my cock was a steel rod trapped behind my zipper, aching so badly I thought I might lose my mind. Now I'm alone in my bedroom, hand wrapped around that same throbbing length, shame and need wrestling inside me as I give in to what I've been fighting for weeks.

The pillow didn't hide shit. She knew exactly what she was doing to me.

Those innocent eyes looking up at me from my lap, her soft lips just inches from my cock. The way she "accidentally" brushed her breast against my knee. The delicate arch of her back when she stretched, pushing those perfect tits against the thin white fabric of her top, her nipples hard and clearly visible. No fucking bra. Jesus Christ.

I tried. I really fucking tried to be good. To look away. To think about contracts and clients and anything but the sweet curve of her ass in those tiny shorts. To forget how she smelled—like vanilla and something uniquely Kate that makes my mouth water. To ignore how her honey-blonde hair spread across my thigh, so close to where I wanted her mouth.